


a meditation in time of war

by andibeth82



Series: a dialogue of self and soul [6]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Comfort/Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Kid Fic, Natasha Feels, Natasha Needs a Hug, Pregnancy, Protective Clint, Team Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-09
Updated: 2014-06-09
Packaged: 2018-02-04 01:15:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1761579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andibeth82/pseuds/andibeth82
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s amazing what he’s sacrificed for her, she realizes - and what they’ve sacrificed for themselves to keep each other alive in this world that constantly seems determined to tear them apart. <i>And now we’re going to be responsible for someone else’s sacrifices.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	a meditation in time of war

It’s not change, Natasha realizes a few days after her conversation with Clint – it’s awareness. It’s an awareness that comes from the fact that Natasha Romanov has always lived her life with a plan, from the moment she was taken from her home to the first knife that was pressed into her hand to the first words that Clint ever spoke to her, a first real choice between life and death. Natasha has never lived her life without a map of what to do and how to do it and, until now, she’s never had to worry about how to read one where the roads veered into a territory she wasn’t prepared to explore.

 _Spies are delicate things_ , she remembers telling Clint when he told her that he was worried about her and that he wanted to help her. She didn’t want pity then and wanted sympathy even less, especially from someone who she still saw as the being the same side of the coin. A shade more morally correct, perhaps – but in the end, a person no different than the ones who had made her in the first place. _Spies were delicate_ and yet Natasha consistently made sure that she never let anyone see her break, so that no one ever did…at least, not until Clint got close enough.

For the most part, Bruce, Tony, and Steve seem to get it, keeping their distance but staying respectful of her situation, and as a result Natasha starts to feel more comfortable about being overly pregnant. At a certain point, she starts to spend less time in the room shared with Clint and more time in the guest bedroom that seems to have informally become designated as a nursery. She counts it as a victory: small steps in letting people see the crinkling edges of her vulnerability.

“We could build a real nursery,” Pepper suggests one morning when she stops in to bring Natasha some daily briefings, finding her stretched out on the bed in the corner. “If you wanted. Tony could fashion any room into a proper place for the baby, we could move the crib…it’s really not a big deal.”

Natasha shrugs, smiling slightly as she turns down her gaze. “Thanks,” she replies as honestly as she can, because the truth is she hasn’t given any thought to where they’ll live or what will happen once she actually does give birth. That part of the puzzle has been yet another realization that she’s managed to tuck away underneath layers of denial, something she’s refused to consciously think about. And it wouldn’t be entirely terrible, she reasons silently, to stay at the Tower. Bruce and Steve would likely leave at some point, if only indefinitely, but with so much space privacy wouldn’t exactly be hard to come by. It’s an apt and reasonable solution and still, when she puts another pillow in the crib or when Clint comes home with another bag of diapers, there’s a lingering, pulsating thought of _maybe we can do this for real_. It’s a thought that scares her, terrifies her, and warms her all at once.

“What are you thinking about?” Clint asks quietly when he comes home one night and finds her sitting up alertly in bed, stripping off jeans dark with dirt and grime from the city cleanup he’s taken to volunteering with during his off days. Natasha watches him undress through squinted eyes and shakes her head.

“Nothing.” She pauses. “Everything,” she admits after a moment, running her hand over her stomach with a sigh. “We’ve never talked about what we’re doing after this kid is born.”

Clint laughs softly, sitting down on the bed. “It took you six months to talk about a name, Nat. And I had to pry that conversation out of you. Now you want to think about where we’re gonna live?” There’s a fracture across his face where a smile is breaking through otherwise serious skin, and Natasha looks down, suddenly unable to meet his expression.

“I don’t know if this is possible,” she admits after a moment, fear settling in her chest. “I don’t…a group of superheroes as babysitters, and a pair of orphan assassins who have never taken care of a living being in their entire life? It reads like a bad bedtime story.”

Clint pulls his lips together into a tight line before shifting slightly, moving his body next to hers and taking her hand. “Anything is possible,” he says quietly, running his fingers over her palm. “I told you. You can give this kid everything, Natasha. We can have our second chance.”

“Second chance,” Natasha murmurs as she leans back against the pillow, the words percolating in her mind. It’s a phrase that never existed in her vocabulary until Clint came into the picture, and even now, the words are a concept that seems foreign and unfit for what she’s experienced.

“You’re right, though,” Clint muses, breaking into her thoughts. “We’re really not prepared for a baby.”

“What do you mean?” Natasha asks as she gestures to the room. “Thor’s crib, and you’ve been buying all these odds and ends – don’t tell me you think Stark doesn’t have an entire arsenal of baby food at his disposal.”

“Who needs baby food when you’re going to be breast feeding?” Clint asks, eyeing her chest and she shoots him a glare as he wraps his arms around her. “I’m just saying. If you think that’s all it takes to raise a baby, Tasha, you’re in for a surprise.”

“Yeah, well.” Natasha picks at the bedcovers, her voice going dark. “Some of us didn’t really get to prepare for this.”

Clint’s smile drops. “You know I didn’t mean that,” he says quietly and she resolutely shakes her head.

“No,” she agrees carefully. “But…it’s true, isn’t it?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he answers defiantly, lacing their fingers together until both of their hands are wrapped around her distended stomach. Natasha swallows hard, images of burning hospital fires and moral compasses gone awry fresh in her mind.

“Loki used me,” she says quietly without really thinking about why she’s saying it, other than the fact that there’s something about the conversation that she still feels she can’t let go of, no matter how hard she tries. Clint shrugs slowly.

“He used me, too.”

“But you don’t talk about it,” Natasha points out suddenly, watching the change in his face.

“I – ”

She stops him with an eyebrow raise, the meaning of which she knows isn’t lost, and Clint rubs a hand over his face.

“It was never the right time,” he says slowly. “After the battle, it was still too soon. And then you got pregnant…” He trails off, and Natasha frowns.

“That was your excuse?” There’s an air of disappointment coating her tone, and she lowers her voice slightly. “We’ve been through this, Clint. Dozens of times. I know how you work. And I know that you don’t want to talk and so I don’t push you and I respect that, but don’t just _pretend_ that nothing happened.” She reaches out and lifts his chin with one hand, recognizing the tired look in his face, the worn down admission of a mind still plagued with things that are better left forgotten and lines of stress along his forehead that she hasn’t seen in months.

“Don’t make this Budapest again,” she continues quietly, leaning into him, one hand palming the side of his face and letting him have control of the silence until he feels comfortable enough to talk, understanding and hoping that he will.

“He was in my head,” Clint says softly when he finally speaks. “All the time. I didn’t sleep, I didn’t eat…you don’t think of anything else.”

“I know,” Natasha says simply, and he sighs.

“I would’ve killed you.”

“You didn’t.”

“But I wanted to,” he throws back, his eyes flashing. “I damn near would’ve killed you _myself_ because I was that determined.”

Natasha bites her lip. “It’s a part of…of being unmade,” she says, pushing her voice to remain steady. “There aren’t emotions. There’s no rational thought. It’s not you, Clint, none of it. You didn’t know what you were doing.”

“But I did,” he responds, his eyes taking on a tinge of guilt. “I saw your face. I knew you were different. I didn’t know how, or why, but I looked at you differently than I did all those other agents I took out. And still, all I cared about was putting a knife to your throat. The feeling of happiness I was going to get when I dragged your body back to him. Like a prize,” he snarls, his fingers digging into the sheets. Natasha works her hands along his until she feels them ease up, pressing her thumb over his wrist, letting herself feel the fast and heavy beat of his pulse.

“Clint.”

“Is that what you want to hear?” he asks angrily. “How I was going to slit your throat and leave you for dead and feel good about it?”

“It wouldn’t be any different than six years ago,” she admits, her mind flashing on darkness, another knife and another arrow and another argument. “But if you say it, you’re facing it.” Her voice softens. “And that’s part of starting to level out.”

Clint closes his eyes, and she can tell from his breathing that he’s struggling to keep his emotions in check.

“How do you make it stop?”

“You don’t,” she says simply, because there’s nothing else _to_ say except for what she knows is the truth. “You just find the strength to get through it.” She pauses. “I did.”

“Yet here you are, spending months trying to run away from something that most people would be ecstatic about.”

“It’s not…I don’t…” She stops, giving him a look. “Don’t think I’m so cold,” she finishes. “I told you, I don’t want to run.”

“Then stop,” he says, matching her tone with the same amount of conviction. “Focus on us, and on what you can do for this child.”

“Easier said than done,” she replies sarcastically, before catching the very real question in his gaze. She sobers instantly, taking a breath.

“I will if you will,” she promises, her voice serious, as Clint puts his head on her shoulder and nods. They don’t push the conversation further, and she knows they won’t – and it’s messy and it’s unfinished, but like so many things in their life it’s _them_ , everything from the baby she’s not sure she can have to the healing she’s not sure will ever be complete.

 _Maybe we don’t need to be normal_ she finds herself thinking as she closes her eyes, lulled to sleep by the sync of their breathing and the acceptance of the fact that the elephant in the room, for now, has been satiated.

 

***

 

In the end, it’s Steve that ends up being on the receiving end of a shopping trip that Natasha thinks is pointless, but that Clint insists upon.

“I can’t believe I’m letting you do this,” she says as she watches him leave the room, and Clint throws another blanket onto the bed in response.

“Look. I don’t feel comfortable leaving you alone at this point, and we need things for this child. We can’t just survive on a crib and a few diapers. And no offense to Tony, but I don’t exactly trust his judgment. I’d be inclined to think you share my views on that.”

Natasha nods slowly, because the idea of _Tony_ shopping for baby items is about as laughable as her own ascent into motherhood. In the absence of Pepper, she does trust Steve more than anyone else, save for maybe Bruce and that was because he had enough scientific background to know how to take care of her.

If someone had at any point said that the Black Widow would be sending Captain America to buy baby supplies, well, she would’ve certainly laughed and then punched them in the face.

“I think I bought out the store,” Steve says when he returns later, Clint having helped him unload bags upon bags of clothes, toys and other assorted items, all of which fall to the floor in a pile at Natasha’s feet. “And, uh, a playpen is on the way, too. The girl behind the counter said we needed one. I tried to tell her we didn’t even know the sex, but she was insistent.” Steve shrugs. “Also thought I was the father.”

Natasha can’t help breaking into a small grin as she meets his eyes. “Well, that’s not so bad, is it?” she teases lightly and Steve looks down, bending to his knees and sifting through the toys until he pulls out a small stuffed hawk with a yellow beak and bright purple feathers. He holds it up and Natasha takes it wordlessly, her fingers shaking as they brush over the top of its head.

“We never had toys. In the Red Room,” she says softly. “We had knives, and…and garrotes. And other weapons.” Her fingers clutch the stuffed bird a little tighter, and Steve lowers himself to the ground until he’s sitting cross-legged next to her on the floor. It’s a mirror image of the way they sat with each other a few months ago, she realizes with a start, except at that time she hadn’t really been sure what she wanted – and scared to embrace what she couldn’t admit to anyone.

“We didn’t have toys, either,” he says, reaching out and wrapping his hand around a small shoe. “During the war. We grew up poor, and then my parents died, and it was just me…well, I had pillow forts, and I had Bucky. And that was about it.”

Natasha looks up, meeting his eyes as Steve reaches out and takes her hand.

“This is as new to me as it is to you,” he continues gently. “Don’t think any of us forget that, even if we don’t say it.”

“I don’t,” Natasha replies before falling silent. “I know that. But this?” She breaks their connection, moving her hand over the materials strewn over the floor. “This makes it real.”

“And this doesn’t?” Steve asks, glancing at her stomach as Clint walks back into the room, stopping suddenly as his gaze falls on Natasha who is sitting on the floor and gripping the small plush bird, her fingers digging fiercely into its claws.

 

***

 

“For the record, being pregnant sucks,” Natasha mutters some weeks later, resting her head against the overly white toilet bowl and feeling Clint’s fingers find their place on her back.

“I thought the morning sickness usually came before the baby bump,” he observes with a frown as he holds her hair back. Natasha groans.

“Clearly, my body didn’t get that memo.” She sits up shakily as he hands her a damp towel, wiping it across her mouth. Clint sighs, relaxing onto the floor next to her, his arm tight around her body.

“You sure we shouldn’t be worried?” he asks after a beat. “It doesn’t take long for Bruce to run some tests, and he said we should probably keep a watch on you anyway at this point –”

“No,” Natasha interrupts, swallowing down another bout of nausea. “I’m already doing that every other day. There are side effects, okay? We know this. That’s what happens when you try to make yourself normal.” She pauses, her eyes going dark. “When you’re someone else’s experiment, it’s never easy.”

“Don’t start insinuating I’m not normal,” Clint says with a small smile, sensing the fear behind her tone as he rubs her stomach gently, trying to alleviate some of the tension both physically and mentally. Natasha smiles back, aligning her breathing with his own, an exercise she’s taken to more and more often as the days approaching her due date become less of a fantasy and more of a reality.

“You okay?” he asks after a long stretch of silence, and she shrugs listlessly.

“I feel like shit and I can barely move. But other than that, sure. Everything is great.”

Clint ignores her tone, easing himself forward and supporting her gently. “Well, then, how about some food? You need to eat, even with this.” He gestures at the toilet and she makes a face at the floor in response.

“You know I’m not really hungry.”

“And you know I don’t care,” Clint responds pointedly but gently. “This isn’t just about the baby, you know.”

“I know what it’s about,” she snaps, immediately recoiling at the look his face in the wake of her words, the confusion and then the hurt that spreads through his features. She pushes a hand through her hair, feeling the frustration curl its way through her body.

“I’m sorry,” she apologizes. “It’s just…” she swallows, watching the way his eyes change, the understanding and then the hint of sadness creeping into his expression.

“You never did well with cabin fever,” he says after a beat, and she shakes her head.

“And I don’t want to leave the Tower,” she says raggedly. “Not like this. I don’t want to be the object of everyone’s attention, either, but Clint…I need to get out of here. Even if it’s just for a little while.”

He stares at her for a long while, setting his jaw in a straight line, and she realizes that she’s not sure what she expects – sympathy, maybe, or perhaps pure rejection in the wake of her situation. Instead, he gets up suddenly, helping her up off the floor before he disappears into the bedroom.

“I know,” he says softly as he walks away and Natasha follows as briskly as she can, silently cursing herself for the fact that she’s reached the point where she can barely walk five steps without feeling like she wants to sit down.

“What are you doing?” she asks as she watches him pull on a different pair of pants, grabbing for a shirt and then a pair of shoes that she hasn’t seen or worn for at least three months.

“Taking you out,” he says simply, gathering more items into a bag. “You’re miserable, Tash. And I’m not waiting another two weeks for you to have this kid before you become normal again.”

“So what exactly are you proposing?” she asks tiredly, still feeling slightly nauseous, the after effect of medication working overtime to ready her body for viable delivery.

“I’m proposing that we get out of the Tower for awhile,” he says, motioning for her to follow him as he walks out of the room. She frowns, crossing her arms.

“Clint. Are you sure this is okay?”

He turns at her words, holding up a small phone. “Tony, Bruce, and Steve, all on speed dial. Before my favorite Chinese place, even,” he adds with a grin. “And I believe Tony’s got the car is hooked up to JARVIS, which means he can relay any type of message back to the Tower.”

 _Correct,_ replies the AI smoothly from somewhere above them and Natasha sighs, still not entirely used to the fact things aren’t _completely_ private sometimes, even if she thinks they are.

“So where are we going?”

“That’s the surprise,” Clint says, hooking an arm around her shoulder. “You like surprises, don’t you?”

“Sometimes,” Natasha shoots back, a smile forcing its way over her lips. As much as she feels frustrated, it’s impossible not to feel a little thankful at the fact that she’s going to see more of the outside world than she’s seen from her window, or for that matter, from the top of Stark’s balcony.

“Trust me,” Clint says gently, squeezing her hand. “I’m going to take care of you.”

 

***

 

 _Trust me,_ she thinks as he helps her into the car, maneuvering it onto the city streets and guiding it through traffic. Natasha has never trusted anything or anyone that hasn’t been herself, and yet if there’s one thing in her life that she feels confident about, it’s him. It always has been, from the moment he didn’t kill her and then every day after that, and even now she’s not entirely sure why she was so innately drawn to putting faith in him when everything in her life said that the decision should have turned out otherwise.

“Aren’t you at least curious as to where I’m taking you?” he asks when they’ve left the Tower behind. Natasha gives him a look.

“Is this a guessing game now?” she returns, shifting against the seatbelt pressing uncomfortably into her stomach. Clint laughs slightly.

“Pretty sure anyone would think twice before playing a guessing game with you,” he replies jokingly, and she makes a face that twists itself into a bitter smile as an unsuspecting stab of pain shoots through her stomach, catching her off guard. The smirk drops off of her face, turning into a grimace, and Natasha keeps her face carefully angled towards the window while swallowing down the urge to cry out.

“What’s wrong?”

She’s been hoping that with the way he’d been focusing on figuring out Stark’s overly complicated radio system that he hasn’t caught how her body has tensed unnecessarily, or the fact that the seat underneath her is now completely soaked with what she recognizes as her water having broken. But she also knows better, knows that he could be sleeping and that he would still find a way to instinctively wake up and figure out that something was wrong.

She shakes her head. “Nothing,” she lies, feeling thankful she’s perfected a mask that she can hold up even when she feels like she wants to die – or almost has. That doesn’t stop Clint from pulling the car over abruptly, slamming on the breaks as he veers onto the side of the road. At the same time that they jerk to a halt, she feels herself shudder again, pressing her hand against the dashboard.

“Shit,” he mutters, and she doesn’t miss the fear in his voice that drives home what she’s been afraid of since the first bout of pain. “This isn’t supposed to happen for another two weeks.”

“Well, it’s happening now,” Natasha says through gritted teeth, struggling to fend off her own fear in the wake of the sudden pain. A white-hot streak flashes across her eyes and she squeezes them shut as the air suddenly leaves her body, the tightness in her chest causing her to internally panic.

“Breathe,” Clint murmurs, suddenly pressed up against her, his voice a steady drone. “I’m here. You’re going to be okay.”

Natasha focuses on his words, letting them calm her until she feels the ache in her chest subside, her lungs opening more easily. “Just like Cambodia,” she says weakly, still shaking, and Clint manages a smile.

“Yeah. And I never thought I’d say this, but I liked it better when all I had to do was worry about a collapsed lung. At least those I have experience with.” He eases back into the driver’s seat, watching closely as she leans her head back.

“Natasha –”

“You know we’re not going to a hospital,” she says, cutting him off. Clint sighs.

“I’m not taking you to a hospital,” he agrees quietly. “But you need someone to deliver this baby. It’s not going to be me, and it’s not going to be anyone else in the Tower.”

She bites her tongue, wanting like hell to fight him on the statement while also knowing that his words are entirely true – despite their help and support, there was no way she was letting Bruce, Steve or especially Tony extract a child from her body.

“So what do we do?” Natasha asks, fending off another contraction. “Because I’m not walking through headquarters like this. Not in front of everyone. I’d rather die.”

Clint doesn’t answer as he reaches for the phone, punching in a string of numbers that she finds slightly confusing given the fact that anyone important should be on automatic speed dial. After a long beat, he throws the phone onto the floor and starts the car again.

“You’re not going to headquarters. I’ve taken care of it.”

“You’ve – what?” She doesn’t know whether she wants to kiss him or scream at him, and feels her body jerk against the seat as he turns the car around.

“I took care of it,” he repeats. “Called Hill a few weeks ago, explained your situation – don’t give me that look, she’s not going to tell anyone, I made damn sure of that – and I took care of it. You’re going to go back to the Tower, and you’re going to have someone deliver this baby.”

“Who, Hill?” she asks sarcastically, trying to stave off the fear she feels taking up residence. Clint shakes his head, his hands tight on the steering wheel.

“No. An agent named Jemma Simmons.” He turns, catching her gaze. “Two PhDs, highly recommended, top of her class at the Academy. Practically a female Tony Stark. She’s currently in training to be part of a tactical team they’re putting together to deal with the after effects of New York. Anyway, I met with her last week, and she’s fully on board.”

“You met with her? And you didn’t tell me?” Natasha asks incredulously, her pain momentarily forgotten. “What the _hell_ , Clint?”

“You weren’t due for another three weeks,” he replies firmly, but she can hear the guilt manifesting itself in his tone. “And I’ve been trying not to throw everything on you at once, because I know how apprehensive you are and I…look, I was just trying to protect you.”

“Protect me?” She feels her voice rising, but doesn’t bother to lower it. “We just had an entire conversation about trust and protection, and now I find out that you’ve gotten someone I don’t even know to deliver my baby and you didn’t tell me? It’s my body!”

“And it’s also mine,” Clint snaps back, his nerves seemingly frayed. “You’re a part of me, and this _kid_ is a part of me, and I’m doing everything I can to make sure that you’re safe. If I hadn’t, you would be on your way to a hospital right now, and the whole world would know that a superhero was pregnant. And there would be a hoard of people knocking down your door to take your picture and ask you why and how and when. And you’d really hate that,” he finishes sharply, pressing the gas pedal a little harder.

Natasha glowers silently in the wake of his words, staring out the window and breathing her way through the anticipation of the next round of pain. “You still should’ve told me,” she says when she feels she can speak again. “You know that if I can’t put my trust in you, I can’t put it in anyone.”

“Natasha.” Clint brings the car to a stop in front of a red light and puts his hand over hers, lacing their fingers together. “You _can_ trust me. Always. We’re going get through this, and I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

_Trust me._

She can’t find the words to respond so she chooses not to, instead squeezing his hand in time with the seemingly unending contractions as the car starts moving again, the traffic passing quicker than she thinks it should and Stark Tower coming into view along the stretch of 42nd Street.

 

***

 

“What the hell happened?” Steve asks, the first person to reach the car when Clint pulls into the underground garage. He yanks open the door and grabs for Natasha’s shoulder, and she resists the urge to shove him off out of instinct.

“Steve, I’m fine,” she says, struggling to stand. He steps back but gives her a dubious look.

“No offense, but I don’t exactly believe you.”

She groans, half in frustration and half in pain. “Just…just get me inside,” she says roughly, her body still riddled with unexplainable terror. She’s managed to keep most of it in check during the rest of the car ride, Clint’s incessant babbling being as helpful as it was annoying. But in the wake of knowing how quickly things are probably going to become real, she’s finding there’s little she can do to actually keep herself calm.

Steve moves forward again as she brings herself to full height but Clint’s at her side in another second, his hand around her waist, and the feeling of it is a welcome comfort that she can’t entirely describe.

“Simmons?” he asks as they help Natasha inside the Tower, and Steve reaches for the elevator button.

“She arrived just before you did,” Tony says, coming into view. “Just let her into the lab so she could see some of Bruce’s work. Nice girl,” he adds as an afterthought. “Young. Reminds me of someone in this room.”

“You flatter yourself,” Natasha says flatly as Clint helps her into the elevator. Tony grins as the doors close and Natasha winces, leaning heavily on Clint’s arm.

“At least one of us is able to make a joke out of this,” she mutters. “And by the way, I hope you’re right about her.”

“Hey.” Clint pulls back, trying to smile, though she can tell he’s feeling just as terrified as she is. “Have I ever been wrong about something?”

Natasha fights off the urge to laugh as the elevator lands, mostly scared that doing so will send her into a round of further contractions that she’s not prepared for.

“Don’t make me answer that.”

 

***

 

The lab is brighter than she remembers, or perhaps that’s because since her last visit it’s been outfitted with all the makings of a potential operating room, down to the bright lights, hospital bed and various beeping machines. She gives herself a moment to take in the surroundings before looking up at Clint, who tightens his grip in what she knows is an attempt to keep her at ease.

“You needed a hospital. So, you’re going to get one.”

Natasha swallows as she gazes around the room, her mind still working through how this is all going to happen, or for that matter, how she’s even going to go through with it. _I’m not supposed to have a baby_ , she finds herself thinking desperately in a moment of slipping panic as Clint helps her towards the bed, before she pushes the thought from her brain.

“Agent Romanov?”

Natasha turns her head towards the unfamiliar voice belonging to the tall woman striding towards them, her mousey hair and accented tone complemented by a white lab coat and dark-rimmed glasses. There’s an overly excited look crawling over her face that she can’t seem to hide as she hurries closer, and Natasha struggles not to react visibly.

“I…you must be Simmons,” she says slowly when the other woman stops by the bed, nodding a little too quickly.

“Jemma Simmons, yes, that’s correct.” She takes off her glasses, and Natasha raises an eyebrow.

“And you’re a…you’re a doctor?”

“Theoretically, I’m a scientist,” Simmons says with a wave of her hand, seemingly undeterred. “A biochemist, to be exact. But my specialty lies in life sciences, and I’ve had multiple experiences with helping people give birth.” She pauses, smiling softly. “You’re in good hands, Agent Romanov.”

Natasha manages a smile as she climbs into bed slowly with Clint’s help, and when she finally gets herself situated she’s surprised to find Tony, Bruce and Steve standing a few yards away.

“Did you all come to watch the freak show?” she asks, unable to stop the sarcasm from spilling out of her mouth, a byproduct of the worry that she can’t seem to quell. Bruce shakes his head, ignoring her tone as he moves forward.

“I’m here to make sure we have all your records correct should anything happen,” he says. “But I won’t be here for the actual birth, unless there’s a real emergency.”

“Good,” Natasha mutters as Simmons starts moving her hands around, pressing in places Natasha’s not exactly sure she should be pressing. She tries to let it go, focusing on Clint instead and the way that he’s dancing his own fingers over her arm.

“So, this is what you did after New York?”

Tony bursts out with a laugh before he can stop himself, while Steve raises an eyebrow. Bruce looks slightly amused but Natasha says nothing, and simply turns her gaze.

“Oh, gosh.” Simmons’ face turns a deep red, and she steps back at the apparent realization of what she’s just said out loud. “I mean, I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to imply anything, it’s just – well, I read your file on the way over and…“

“You don’t need to read my file,” Natasha interjects, cutting her off. “You know about my background, yes?”

“Yes.” Simmons swallows. “Yes, of course. The Red Room, and how you came to S.H.I.E.L.D. in –”

“I’m not talking about the Red Room,” Natasha interrupts, the words feeling like ice on her lips. “I asked if you knew about my background.”

The other woman falls silent, and when she speaks for the second time, her voice is confident and somewhat more firm. “Yes,” she says, steeling her gaze as she meets Natasha’s own. “Yes, I know about the ways your body can react to the complications that come with a pregnancy like this, and I am aware of the chemicals involved in the serum Dr. Banner has been giving you during your injections. I know from my studies exactly what we need to worry about, and I know what we’re going to have to do to get this baby delivered safely.” She punctuates the words by folding her arms and Natasha nods in the resulting silence, regarding her carefully before leaning back on the bed.

“Good,” she says quietly. “If Clint trusts you, I do, too.” She watches as Simmons walks to the other side of the room and Clint takes her hand, soothing her through another contraction.

“No way to make this easier?” she asks painfully as he rubs his thumb over her palm.

“Well, I could roll you over on your side, like those birthing manuals suggest. You know, to relieve tension on the stomach.” He cracks a smile. “But I fear you might kill me.”

“Pass,” Natasha spits out, though she can’t stop herself from smiling as well. “I’ll live. I’ve had worse.”

“Yeah, I know,” he says pointedly and she turns her head so that she can fully see his face, the way his eyes are too alert and too bright. It’s amazing what he’s sacrificed for her, she realizes – and what they’ve sacrificed for _themselves_ to keep each other alive in this world that constantly seems determined to tear them apart. _And now we’re going to be responsible for someone else’s sacrifices._ She closes her eyes against the sudden onslaught of emotion, and feels Clint’s hand shifts in her own.

“We need to make sure you’re comfortable as possible,” Simmons says curtly, her voice cutting into Natasha’s thoughts as she opens her eyes. “It’s likely the labor may take awhile, and I don’t want you to be in more pain than you should be.”

“ _May_ take awhile?” Natasha asks as Simmons sighs.

“Agent Romanov. As with any birth of a human life, labor typically takes anywhere up to 10 hours. Possibly more. In your case, it could possibly be less.” She takes a breath. “Given your high pain threshold, I’d say you were in early labor for at least five hours before you realized what was happening, and that may have sped up our time frame. But I really will not know what we’re looking at until I get a better sense of how the baby is progressing.”

“Fantastic,” Natasha mutters, turning back to Clint. “If I ever decide to have unprotected sex on the floor of a safe house again, please remind me of this moment.”

“Oh, come on.” He pokes at her arm. “It wasn’t that bad. First time in at least four years that I’ve heard you complain.”

“The vodka helped,” she shoots back, and the feeling that she can match his sarcasm and humor even while stuck in a situation that terrifies her is a kind of normal that she’s grateful for.

 

***

 

Four hours later, Natasha is no less irritable. Clint is no less patient, but Simmons seems a cross between visibly stressed and overwhelmingly calm, flitting about the room in a nervous manner that causes Natasha to feel slightly doubtful.

“She _did_ come highly recommended, right?” Natasha asks under her breath as Clint moves his chair closer to her bed, where he’s been keeping watch since the contractions began.

“I heard that,” Simmons says bluntly, coming up behind them before starting to fuss with the IV attached to Natasha’s hand. “And yes, I would hope that I come highly recommended given that I was top of my class at the Academy, and that my partner and I have experience in dozens of science areas that most people only dream of understanding.”

Clint hides a smile. “Clearly, I was never like that,” he whispers into her ear. Natasha rolls her eyes.

“You were skipping lectures to practice archery during all the science classes,” she points out, and while it’s somewhat of a bluff she knows enough about his past to ascertain that there’s more than a little truth to the words. Clint shrugs, not bothering to refute her comments.

“Yeah, but I still learned everything. And I passed out of that place with flying colors,” he adds with a small grin. “Level 7 S.H.I.E.L.D. agent for hire.”

Natasha can’t help but smile back at the exact moment that one Simmons’ monitors begins beeping erratically, the sound causing Clint to go rigid in her grasp as he sits up straight, his brow furrowed in worry.

“What’s wrong?”

“I…I don’t know,” Simmons says, clearly confused herself, and Clint’s out of his chair in less than five seconds and practically on top of her as she stares down at her charts.

“What do you mean _you don’t know_?” he demands angrily, his voice hard with an edge that Natasha’s only heard from him a handful of times in their partnership. “I brought you here because you were supposed to know what to do when things like this happen.”

Simmons shakes her head, ignoring the overbearingness of his body next to hers as she pushes a few buttons on the monitors before looking up. “I mean, I don’t _know,”_ she says just as strongly. “I don’t exactly know what’s happening, but all signs are pointing to the fact that the baby’s in distress.”

“Which means what?” Natasha asks from the bed, her voice strained. Simmons closes her eyes, steadying herself before turning around.

“It means you need a C-section,” she says, making a flurry of notations on the computer. “So, I’m very sorry, Natasha, but I’m going to have to put you under.”

“Put me under?” Natasha sucks in a breath and laughs cynically, her voice tinged with anxiety she can’t hide. “No way.”

“Natasha –”

“No.” She bites back, her voice cold. “There needs to be another way.”

“I’m terribly sorry,” Simmons emphasizes. “But there’s not.” She turns to Clint, her eyes pleading helplessly. “Agent Barton, I told Hill I would do everything I could to help Agent Romanov through this, and I will. But we can’t get this baby out if she’s not sedated and I refuse to cut into her otherwise.”

Clint swallows as he balls his hands into tight fists, letting his body take in the weight of her words before he starts making his way back to the bed.

“Natasha.”

“Do not,” she says strongly, gripping his arm as soon as he’s in reach, and he can practically hear the panic taking over. “Do not let them do this.”

“Natasha, listen to me,” he says roughly, holding down her arms as she starts to struggle. “Listen to me.” He finds her eyes, latching onto her gaze. “I will be here. I promise. When you wake up, I will be here.” He places his hand on her cheek, letting her feel the solidness of his skin. “And so will our baby.”

Natasha shakes her head, feeling the start of tears. “You can’t promise that,” she says brokenly as he leans over to kiss her gently.

“Yes, I can,” says Clint, and there’s determination and ferocity shadowing his face that she hasn’t seen since he pulled himself out of Loki’s mind. “Maybe I couldn’t before, but this time I can, and I promise.” He pauses, keeping his lips close to her skin as he watches Simmons press the needle into her arm, and she says the words silently in her head as he whispers them into her ear.

“Trust me.”

 

***

 

She’s heard people talk about how when you’re forced into any sort of medically induced sleep, there’s a gradual feeling of slipping off, and as a result you don’t realize you’ve even closed your eyes until you open them again however many hours later. But Natasha has never been normal, and her nights of regular sleep have never been normal, and being forced into darkness is no exception. The initial descent is nothing short of terrifying, a sweeping blackness that pulls her down into an abyss where she feels as if she’s underwater, a nothingness that envelopes her into a tight vice until she finally cracks, falling weightlessly out of her skin.

And the darkness clears and she’s lying on the floor of a dirty room, one that’s filled with the stink of bodies and the dampness of wet blood.

“Who are you?” asks a voice from the corner and like a robot she rises, clutching the knife in her right hand, all her previous memories forgotten.

“Natalia Alianovna,” she says, her feet steady beneath her as the shadow in the corner nods.

“And why are you here?”

Natasha moves further into the dark. “Because I have been sent to kill you,” she says methodically as she wraps her garrote around the mystery man’s neck and plunges her knife into the arm that tries to bring her down. “Because that is what I do.”

She pulls and pulls until she feels the snap of breaking bones, until the man slides lifeless from her grip, and by the time she sidesteps him the floor has become a river of sticky, shining red.

“Because that is who I am.”

 

She’s ten when the men in uniforms with dark voices and even darker eyes burst into her house while she sleeps, slit her mother’s throat and then her father’s while she dreams of unicorns and days in the park. She’s ten when she’s awakened by rough hands dragging her out of bed, pulling her into the bedroom, where she’s forced to stare at the blood splattered walls and the two mutilated bodies of the people who had spent their lives making her feel safe and loved.

“I spare no life,” the man says coldly, picking her up and carrying her out of the house while she screams. Some years later, in Stalingrad, she would kill her first innocent blood and she would not back down, not even when the man begged and pleaded with everything she knew he had in him.

“I spare no life,” she says, dragging her blade across smooth flesh, feeling the hot spurt of red against her fingers. There’s a small noise coming from underneath the bed in the corner and Natasha drops soundlessly to her knees as she releases the body, brandishing her weapon as she peers into the dark. The child hiding with her knees up to her chest is no more than five or six, eyes bright with unshed tears and a trembling lower lip.

Natasha stares blankly, fending off memories that threaten to overwhelm her brain, before dropping the knife and vaulting out the open window.

 

The first time she’s truly alone with Clint, she thinks about killing him.

She doesn’t, of course – Natasha Romanov is nothing if not professional, and she’s promised him that she would behave. Still, it doesn’t mean that she doesn’t wonder about what it would be like if she did wrap her hands around his throat, if she did stick her knife into his stomach, if she did snap his neck while he was sleeping.

“Are you thinking about killing me?” Clint asks tiredly from the other end of the room. Natasha looks up, for a moment caught off guard wondering how he’s even realized she’s awake in the first place.

“Yes,” she admits, because she figures she may as well be honest. She expects him to bolt at the admission, to get up and pin her down, and maybe even make a call about how this woman he had been partnered with was unstable, even though he was the one who had requested her presence in the first place. Instead, he simply groans, turning over in bed.

“Do it later in the morning after I have coffee, at least,” he mutters and for the first time in far too long, Natasha feels her lips curving into something that she might almost classify as a smile.

They would kill her themselves, for not carrying out orders, for even considering otherwise, she knows. They would call her weak and lazy and reformed, and all sorts of names that carried punishments of death or worse.

As it turns out, Natasha Romanov doesn’t care.

 

***

 

When the world finally starts to clear, she feels like she’s still underwater.

There’s air to breathe, and she doesn’t feel like she’s stuck in a suffocating black hole. But moving any part of her body seems to be a slow process, and her ears are muffled and her throat is dry, her body aching with the kind of pain that she’s not used to feeling, the kind where she’s had to call in for an extraction and where Coulson has had to call in for three hours worth of surgery.

And it’s still dark.

Natasha fights to open her eyes, cracking them open and then immediately closing them again against the light that threatens to split her head. She settles for focusing on her breathing instead, slowly becoming aware of the sounds in the room and the softness of her own breath, and someone else’s movements next to her.

“Hey,” says a quiet voice and Natasha turns carefully, opening her eyes to Clint’s face. He looks more ragged than she remembers, the dark circles under his eyes painting a case for exhaustion, and she doesn’t even bother to wonder if he’s slept or ate during the time she’s been out.

“Did you age while I was sleeping?” she asks and he laughs, tears spilling over at her words.

“Only about ten years,” he replies, scooting his chair closer and placing his hand on her face. “How do you feel?”

Natasha swallows down the words that threaten to come back up in the form of liquid. “Remember when we needed an extraction in Lithuania?” she asks softly.

“You mean when you fractured your spleen and were internally bleeding for an hour without knowing it?” he responds dryly, guiding a cup of water into her hands.

“Kind of like that,” she replies, her lips curving as he helps her drink slowly. Clint lets out a soft laugh, and when he pulls away his eyes are bright again.

“I kept my promise, by the way.”

She feels her breath catch as he turns away, the sharp intake of air causing him to look back at her in concern.

“Simmons wanted to take him upstairs for observation, but I convinced her to wait until you woke up.”

_Him._

She can’t make the words become real inside her throat, hoping that he’ll find a way to understand as he gets up and walks across the room, bending over to pick up a small bundle wrapped tightly inside a white blanket. She mutely shakes her head against an overwhelming amount of guilt, the realization of the fact that the root of her fear is quite literally staring her in the face.

“I don’t…I have no maternal instincts,” she says hoarsely, trying to mask her anxiety as the baby starts to cry.

“Just try,” Clint encourages softly, unyielding as he helps wrap her arms around the blanket, keeping one hand on her shoulder. “Just hold him.”

The cries drop off as Clint finishes settling the baby into her arms, and Natasha swallows her tears. For all the times she’s seen children, or killed them or saved them, he’s smaller than she would have ever imagined, with miniscule fingers that grasp for something tangible in the wake of being moved and even smaller facial features. Natasha stares dazedly, allowing herself to fully see him (and he’s _hers_ , she realizes with a start) and wonders if this was how her parents felt when she was born – before their daughter became someone who would come to be known as the world’s greatest assassin and the country’s most glorified killer.

“I was thinking, for the name.” Clint says quietly, before stopping, as if waiting for permission to continue. “I was thinking of Alex.”

Natasha lifts her eyes, meeting his own. “Aleksander means to defend,” she says just as softly, and Clint nods as he edges closer.

“What would you have done if we had a girl?” she asks. “We never really decided on alternatives.”

“Exactly,” Clint remarks, putting his fingers on the baby’s small hands, watching as they entangle with his own.

“Bow fingers,” he says after a moment, and Natasha manages a laugh that comes out sounding more like a sob.

“Really?” she teases. “He’s probably five hours old and you already think he’s got only your traits.”

“Three,” Clint corrects, moving his body closer. “And that’s not entirely true. I think he has your hair.”

He brushes his hand over the baby’s head, which Natasha notices for the first time is peppered with small tufts of dark fuzz. She smiles, not bothering to hold back her tears, and finds herself thinking about how suddenly, the color red doesn’t seem so bad after all.

 

**FIVE WEEKS LATER**

 

After Alex’s birth, everything Natasha knows becomes a blur as Bruce continues to closely monitor her body – though the paperwork and the blood work become a little less with each passing day, until they’re nothing more than a distant memory. Steve and Tony take turns helping out around the Tower and Pepper returns home from business early; the fact that there’s at least one other woman around is something Natasha hasn’t realized she’s taken for granted during her pregnancy.

Eventually, things begin to even out, and though her body is healing itself faster than she knows a normal system would, she remains primarily on bed rest because “C-sections are not to be sniffed about,” Simmons had warned in a severe voice before taking off. Her words had their patented effect, and Clint had been a stickler for overprotection after that, even when Bruce’s tests showed otherwise and even though she was allowed to walk around the Tower unsupervised. But Natasha comes to realize that she doesn’t mind being somewhat sedentary, especially in the first few weeks when everything seems too new and too overwhelming, and when Clint finds her in tears at the side of the bed or on the bedroom floor.

And then one day, some weeks after giving birth, Natasha gets up earlier than usual to make coffee and comes back to the bedroom to find Clint stretched out on the mattress with Alex sleeping soundly across the length of his chest. She’s not one for sappy scenarios that look like they could be taken right out of the trashy romance novels she’d never confess to reading, but she has to admit the image is more than a little endearing - so much so that she hates the fact that she’s going to have to ruin it. Sure enough, Clint stirs the moment she eases herself down on the bed, and she can’t help but smile.

“Come back to sleep,” he mumbles, his voice barely audible with the way that his head is pressed into the pillow. Natasha puts her mug on the bedside table and climbs carefully into bed, easing Alex slowly off his chest and moving him between them as they close their bodies together in a protective sandwich.

“You really should get up before Rogers decides to steal him again for the day,” she says after a beat, and Clint grunts in response.

“I’m going to institute a policy where you have to pay every time you want to take our baby out,” he says groggily. Natasha smirks.

“And you know that rule would barely stop Stark,” she replies purposely, running a hand over Alex’s arm as she slides down against the pillow, placing her cheek gently on the baby’s head.

“You know that I didn’t even think about what I wanted?”

“What do you mean?” Clint asks, coming awake a little more at the sudden change in subject, noticing the way her voice turns a shade more serious. Natasha shrugs, not moving from her position.

“I guess I never thought about if I would have a boy, or a girl, or…or what that would mean for me,” she says slowly. “Because I didn’t want to think about it. I thought maybe a girl would give me a chance to re-live my past, and make things better.” She pauses. “But I guess that doesn’t really matter now.”

“No,” Clint agrees, drawing a blanket up around their bodies. “It doesn’t. But then again, I could’ve told you that a year ago, if you had listened.”

Natasha presses her lips together. “And I’d say that makes us even, but I don’t know what I’d do with myself if I couldn’t owe you a debt.”

Clint laughs quietly, leaning over to place a kiss on Alex’s head until their foreheads are right up against each other’s skin.

“I’m sure you’d figure something out,” he replies. “You are a fighter, after all.”

“And a mother,” Natasha adds, the words still feeling as strange as they did the first time she said them out loud, but their truth becoming a little more real with each declaration.

“And a mother,” he repeats, closing his eyes. Natasha uses the lull in the conversation to take Alex fully into her arms, kissing him gently.

“ _Ya tebya lyublyu_. I love you,” she whispers as Clint curls into her, and for the first time in possibly forever everything about her life feels whole and secure and good.

**Author's Note:**

> It is done. 
> 
> This probably could have and should have functioned a multi-chapter - but hilariously, when I began writing, I thought no one would want to spend the time reading over 6,000 words per chapter of assassins having babies. I have never been happier to be wrong – and as it turns out, writing this as a series gave me room to expand on those moments that got a little out of control in terms of word count.
> 
> It was so important for me as a writer and as a lover of these characters to take this story seriously, and tell it in the most mature and accurate way possible. And while I love fluff as much as the next person, when it comes to these two and their pasts, I find it very hard to accept that they would just fall into happy ease when it came to having and caring for a child. I wanted this story to fully explore the journey Natasha would undergo in terms of not just becoming pregnant, but in terms of acknowledging what that means, and what it means to everyone around her. How would Natasha react? How would Clint deal with that? These very real feelings of denial and emotional trauma and fear and mistrust and love are all things I tried to get across in this 36K+, 79 total pages in MS Word undertaking. I wanted the payoff of Natasha learning to love another human – one that she was fully responsible for – to be something that felt like it was earned. And if I even made you feel a little bit like that, then I’ve done my job. 
> 
> Obviously, a story like this doesn’t happen on its own, and just as Natasha couldn’t have gotten through her pregnancy without the Avengers, I couldn’t have written this without my beta team and two of my dearest, closest friends. So, thank you [bobsessive](http://bobsessive.tumblr.com) and [fidesangelus](http://fidesangelus.tumblr.com). I have no way to accurately express how much I am indebted to you. Thank you for pushing me through this when I wanted to cry (and then did cry) out of frustration, for convincing me to keep writing because people would read, for pushing me through the worst of writer’s block when I was so certain I could never finish, for encouraging me and feeding me plot devices, for offering dialogue help and title help and even sending pregnancy research with commentary. Your beta made my story better and really, this would not be what it is without your help.
> 
> And thank you to [hjea](hjea.tumblr.com), for encouragement and for putting the idea in my head in the first place. At this point, I don’t even remember what you said to me other than “Natasha and Clint should have a baby and you should write it,” but clearly, it was enough to jumpstart my brain into…well….this.
> 
> And finally, thank you to YOU – to everyone who has read this series, left kudos, commented, recc’ed it, come back for repeat reads, etc. It’s amazing to me that people love this universe, and I could not be more grateful to your support.


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